


Bleeding Heart

by Ellegy42



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, But only after CH1, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, Suicidal Thoughts, Tim Drake-centric, Whump, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellegy42/pseuds/Ellegy42
Summary: Tim watched his heroes fall to their deaths when he was three years old, followed it up with ten years of child neglect and emotional abuse by his parents, found a hobby or two, got orphaned -twice- and had one of his coping mechanisms taken away and given to the preteen that kept trying to murder him.Shockingly, the space inside of Tim's head isn't a very nice one. This is his journey as he learns to deal with that.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	1. Asking for Help is Harder Than it Seems

**Author's Note:**

> TW for detailed descriptions of depression, thoughts of suicide, and too many intrusive thoughts to count. IF YOU ARE HAVING A BAD HEAD DAY, SKIP TO THE NEXT CHAPTER. This is nothing but 2,000 words of self loathing and nasty, nasty intrusive thoughts that I needed to get out.  
> Take care of yourselves. If you find yourselves emulating Tim or having these sort of thoughts, stop, realize it’s a bad thing, and ask for help. Learning to recognize intrusive thoughts and asking for help when you need it are just as important as anything else you can do. Mental health is really fucking important but gets stigmatized and a lot of people don’t take it seriously.  
> So for the love of God, ask for help when you need it. Take a hint from the bitch who knows full well this is bullshit.

Bruce would bench him if he knew, Tim thinks.

He doesn’t have the energy to care about that.

He digs his nails into the skin of his side again, letting them bite bite bite until there are crescents welling in his skin, just barely shy of drawing blood.

He’s always careful not to leave blood.

Always careful not to leave scars.

Careful not to let anyone see.

He’s always careful.

His heart used to jump, to squeeze if he pinched hard enough, but his pain threshold is too high for that nowadays, but he knows better than to leave scars.

He has too many of those as it is. He doesn’t need more.

Scars mean questions.

And sure, he could leave them on the insides of his thighs or on the backs of his calves or under his shirt where he already has too many, but he knows better than to start drawing blood because he would never stop. It would never be enough if he did that, so he sticks with this, making the crescents in his location of choice to fade once he’s finished falling apart again.

He isn’t fit to go on patrol.

If he doesn’t go on patrol, Bruce will ask questions.

Well. Eventually.

He would have to stay in at least two nights without letting anyone know what’s going on before they started to get concerned about him. Two days is more than enough time to kill himself.

But he could definitely get away with staying in tonight, if he decides to. It won’t matter.

Tim thinks of how they would react, if they knew how often he has these kinds of thoughts.

Damian would scoff, say how pathetic he is, but he would be the only one.

Bruce would look at him sadly, and Dick would have that expression on his face like he thinks he’s failed as a brother again and both of them would take Tim home to the manor and wrap him up in blankets and fill him up with hot chocolate until he’s ready to burst. They might even tell Damian to leave him the hell alone, for once.

Jason… Tim doesn’t actually know how Jason would react. He would either laugh or get pissed that Tim didn’t ask them for help.

They’d do that, if they found out.

Tim still isn’t going to tell them.

It isn’t logical. He knows that.

Tim digs his fingernails into the soft flesh at his wrist, lets them rest there for just a moment, before he drags them slowly toward his elbow, the force carefully just shy of actually drawing blood. He pauses to watch the angry red lines that appear, then does it again.

Intellectually, he should call someone – Bruce, Dick, Alfred, Connor, Bart; the list goes on and on – but he doesn’t give a shit.

Maybe he will later.

He watches the shift of stark white skin, freshly pinched, to dark, angry red as the skin starts to react to his not at all gentle ministrations.

His lips quirk upward in bitter amusement.

He’s so fucking _poetic_ , isn’t he? Such a fucking _artist_ , it’s like he’s got something to say to the fucking world, the world that takes and takes and takes and takes and _takes-_

Tim cuts his heaving breaths short, holds it for ten seconds and then lets the air out until his chest is burning for oxygen and holds it like that, too. He lets the air trickle in again until his lungs ache from too much air, and holds his breath.

He does it again.

And again.

Again.

He’s good now. He’s not hyperventilating, anymore.

He smirks at himself in the bathroom mirror.

God, he’s a mess.

He should just kill himself, hurry up and do what the world’s been trying to accomplish since he was twelve years old and he first set foot in Wayne Manor.

He wasn’t ever meant to be Robin anyway, and he isn’t, now.

They don’t fucking _need_ him, they’ve made that plenty clear.

But no, Tim doesn’t get to do that, because he has shit to do.

He has an entire backlog of people to find and put in jail, and other people he needs to wring for information. Dick would be upset that he didn’t see it coming, would blame himself. It would be stupid, of course.

Tim doesn’t _want_ them to see.

He doesn’t want anyone to see the poison steeping in his chest, turning his blood to acid in his veins.

Tim _really_ isn’t fit to go on patrol. Not in this condition.

But he won’t be doing anything stupid, because much as he would _love_ to commit suicide, it’s a bad idea. The Titans still call on occasion for help with particularly difficult cases; the the Bats need every pair of hands they can get whenever there’s a breakout in Arkham; and while Bruce could go back to running Wayne Enterprises if he had to, it would take valuable time from his cases.

No, they don’t _need_ Tim, per se, but he’s useful. He provides Bruce with more opportunities to do what needs to be done, and makes sure the company is still taken care of.

It’s probably not good that Tim is so good at hiding this shit from everyone, but then, it’s not like anyone is looking particularly hard for it, either.

There isn’t anyone to notice the days he doesn’t move at all except for something to eat before patrol, so he doesn’t pass out from low blood sugar. There isn’t anyone with the context to know that he usually keeps his apartment spotless, but he hasn’t done the dishes in two weeks now. There’s nobody who spends enough time to realize that the cause of his insomnia isn’t just that he always has something to do.

He always has something to do because he doesn’t want to sleep, can’t lay down in his bed and risk letting his thoughts take over for however many hours he allows himself that night.

Fuck.

He’s doing it again, isn’t he? He is.

He’s in another goddam spiral.

Damn it.

He hates these.

When everything is such fucking bullshit and his mind just goes in circles of what a piece of shit he is, even though he’s fully aware – from a purely intellectual standpoint – that people like him and that he is a valuable contribution to the vigilante population.

It feels like a fucking lie.

He’s just a fucked up teenager risking his life on a regular basis because he’s too fucking dumb to realize he can do so much more by going through Wayne Enterprises and setting up opportunities to help people so they don’t go fucking crazy.

It’s not like he doesn’t do that, too, though.

It’s not like it makes a fucking difference in the fucking cesspit that is Gotham.

“I am a wonderful, brilliant vigilante who makes a positive impact on the community,” Tim tells himself in the mirror.

He snorts.

_Right._

Sure.

Tim Drake, so _wonderful_ , _brilliant_ , that he can’t even save his best friends or family or anyone else from getting murdered by psychopaths.

God, he really should kill himself. It would be so fucking _easy_ , no matter how he wanted to do it. There are so many ways, that wouldn’t even be _painful_.

He could go to the woods, pick a deadly mushroom, make sure he isn’t close enough to his car to chicken out, and problem solved. All he has to do is set up a scheduled text message to let someone know where to pick up the body.

He knows exactly which combinations of pills to take to make sure he goes to sleep and never wakes up again, and he has the resources to get them if he wants to actually pay for them and the skills if he doesn’t.

A gun would be easy, especially since he wouldn’t fuck up and lobotomize himself by sticking the gun in his mouth like a fucking idiot.

He sneers at himself. If he’s going to commit suicide he isn’t about to botch it. That would defeat the entire damn purpose.

If he’s willing to do a somewhat less pleasant death he could probably slit his wrists; if he combined that with some pills, it’s almost certain he wouldn’t wake up again.

He’s not going to drive his car into a tree, buckled or no. Survival is too likely for that to be a good idea.

Whatever he picks (he won’t, but that’s not the point), he’ll be careful not to leave too much of a mess that someone has to clean up.

That sort of thing tends to be traumatic.

Ironic. Tim would be a _thoughtful_ suicide. Make sure nobody walked in unprepared and had to go through years of therapy.

Tim should really be in therapy. He really, really should.

 _Imagine the headlines_ , his mother’s voice echoes in his head, _Drake Heir Suicidal?_

He’s not the Drake heir, not anymore, but he _is_ a Wayne heir now, which would just add fuel to the fire. Look at this poor little rich boy who can’t live with himself. So fucking _tragic._

Tim glances at his watch.

He’s got another hour before he needs to get ready for patrol. He should get some food or something.

He isn’t hungry.

God, how long has he been standing in front of his bathroom mirror, clawing his arms raw and stewing in his own thoughts? This is fucking pathetic. He should be _stronger_ than this. He should pick up the phone and call Dick or Bruce or _someone_ and say “I need you to come keep me company, I’m borderline suicidal right now.”

It would scare the shit out of them, but he wouldn’t be sitting here alone anymore, and when this is the shit going through his head he _needs_ that. Needs someone to drag his ass off the couch or out of his bed or his bathroom and force him to go outside and drink a smoothie or something.

Make him be depressed in a different setting, at the very least.

Nah.

Too much effort.

His limbs feel heavy now, all the pent-up rage and self-loathing dying down to leave him apathetic and tired.

He doesn’t want to go on patrol tonight. He doesn’t want to do anything tonight. He wants to lie down on the floor and hate himself, except he’s not even sure he has the energy to bother hating himself.

He wants to stop being tired all the time, to stop hating himself so goddamn much.

He wants to be good enough, smart enough, to actually fucking ask for help for once in his life instead of throwing himself away without a second thought except ‘ _I should have done it sooner_.’

Tim stands there for another five minutes before he forces himself to leave the bathroom and lie down on his bed instead.

His phone is lying on the side table.

Tim rolls onto his other side so he doesn’t have to look at it.


	2. Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first step is always the hardest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with another chapter, as you can see. This one is (marginally) happier. Thanks for all the lovely kudos, guys. They made me smile.  
> TW: Lots more intrusive thoughts, but now we get some actual hurt/comfort. Remember to take care of yourselves.

Tim hasn’t moved in hours; not even to use the bathroom or get coffee. He’s just been staring at his phone, scrolling dully through news articles on his phone. He’s not interested in any of them. 

It’s another bad day. 

Another day of self-loathing and resisting the urge to slit his own wrists because he’s worthless trash that should’ve been put down in the fucking cradle before he ever even had the chance to poison the lives of the people around him, and if that isn’t an intrusive thought, he doesn’t know what is. 

“I’m fucking fabulous,” Tim says. He doesn’t even try to put any effort into them, just forces them to fall flatly into the air. They don’t echo in his room; they weren’t loud enough to do that. They don’t fall into silence, either – the world hasn’t noticed his mood, and the faint sounds of traffic enter through the window. 

He doesn’t believe it, of course he doesn’t, but that’s not the point. The point is to recognize when he’s having intrusive thoughts and then make an attempt to counteract them, feeble as it might be. The point is that he’s  _ tired _ , and he’s tired of being tired, and he wants to kill himself and he’s fucking tired of that, too. 

He’s not ever going to kill himself- there are too many people (civilians; the heroes don’t need him) to actually ever do that.  ~~ How would Batman react if Tim killed himself? Would he blame himself, or would he even care, now that he has an actual son to take care of?  ~~

Life is pain, Highness. Anyone telling you otherwise is selling something. 

He doesn’t want to be alive, anymore. Hasn’t for a long time.

He’s spiraling again. If he doesn’t do something now, he might just – stop. Stop and not start again, and he can’t take that risk. 

Which means he has to actually do things to take care of himself.

Speaking of, when was the last time he ate? 

Yesterday, he thinks. He didn’t go on patrol, so – lunch, maybe? He’d had a meeting. It’d been awful, but the soup had been decent.

So food and water. 

Tim drags himself upright and sits on the bed for a moment, staring at his bedspread. It’s blue. But not because he’s depressed. He’d just liked it, that’s all. 

It takes another moment to drag himself to the edge of the mattress, and another after that to convince himself to actually stand. Then he’s in the kitchen, staring blankly at the ketchup sitting on the top shelf of his fridge. He has eggs. Milk. A few vegetables. Some cheese and meat. Nothing that doesn’t make his nose want to scrunch in disgust, though. 

He pulls his phone out from his pocket and opens Grubhub, orders a smoothie and some chips. They’ll go down easy and give him carbs, if nothing else. 

If he had any emotions right now, he would be glad for delivery apps.  ~~ Sometimes Tim feels like he’s a sociopath because his emotions just turn off and he thinks he could probably kill a dozen people without blinking twice. He’s more likely to kill himself, though ~~ .

Tim should not be alone right now. 

He fills a glass of water from the tap and considers what to do next as he forces himself to take a few sips. The water is lukewarm and bitter. He drinks it anyway.

Tim should ask someone to come over, because having someone there makes it easier to ride it out without feeling like he’s going to do something everyone else may or may not regret later. 

Tim thinks that if he had to deal with Bruce or Dick mother-henning him right now, he could find the energy to kill someone. 

Tim should not be alone right now. 

The thought of being around anyone at all makes his skin want to crawl right off.

Cass would be best, but she’s in Hong Kong. 

Dick would either be perfect or would make it worse in his attempts to help. Even if he was understanding about it, he’d probably treat Tim different in the future, and would probably end up telling the others in a misguided attempt to help Tim. 

Jason would probably just encourage him to kill himself. 

Damian would definitely just encourage him to kill himself. 

Bruce is… not happening. 

Tim hasn’t even told the man he has intrusive thoughts, much less the intense desire to kill himself because he’s depressed as all fuck. (In fairness, Tim hasn’t told  _ anyone _ he has intrusive thoughts and desperately wants to kill himself, because he really  _ is _ depressed as all  _ fucking _ hell).

Steph… is an option, actually. She wouldn’t  _ get _ it, but if Tim explained she’d do what she could to help. She would probably help him watch out for this shit in the future, too. 

Would she tell Bruce? 

Hmm. 

She’s not close with the man, but if she thought Tim was in danger she’d want to make sure someone was keeping an eye him, and that could inadvertently make things worse. Tim doesn’t want anyone putting him on a suicide watch (even if they rightfully should) or treating him like he’s made of glass.

The only other option is Alfred, who would be here by the time Tim hung up the phone, preparing chicken soup and hot cocoa. 

Alfred wouldn’t tell anyone, if Tim asked him not to. 

So. 

Steph or Alfred? 

Is the risk of Steph talking high enough that Tim is willing to let his adopted grandfather see him at one of his lowest points? 

Yeah, probably. 

Would Alfred be  _ better _ for him than having Steph there? 

Almost certainly.

~~ He’d be dragging Alfred away from his work, because like hell is Tim going to the Manor when he’s borderline suicidal, and forcing the man to deal with Tim’s baggage ~~ . He would be acknowledging that there is something wrong and asking for help, like Alfred always  _ tells him to _ . 

He doesn’t want to. 

He should. 

He  _ doesn’t want to _ . 

He  _ should _ . 

He wants to scream until his throat is raw and claw his arms bloody and burst into loud, ugly sobbing and maybe stab himself once or twice or five times, slitting his wrists for good measure. 

Tim isn’t stable. 

Tim sets down the glass of water, still half-full, and stares at his phone. 

_ Fine _ , damnit. 

He makes the call. 

_ Ring.  _

_ Ring.  _

_ “Master Timothy. Is there something I can help you with?”  _

Tim’s throat clogs abruptly, thick with anxiety and the desire to cry and scream and he  _ does not want to do this _ . “Hey, Alfred,” He manages. 

There’s a moment of silence. 

_ “Are you well, Master Timothy?”  _

“Uh. No. Not really.”  _ Not at all. _ “Do you think you could – come over? Not. You don’t need to –  _ do _ anything, just. I shouldn’t be alone.” 

He has to force the words out, make himself drop every syllable into the air for Alfred to hear what he isn’t saying.  _ Help me. _

Alfred’s voice is gentle when he speaks again.  _ “Of course, Master Timothy. Would you like me to bring anyone else with me?”  _

“No – no thanks. I’d – rather you didn’t.” 

He’s usually so eloquent, able to debate with the best of them and hold an argument against Batman himself or Ra’s al Ghul or anyone else, but when he’s like this the words just never come. Speaking is a chore, communication a  losing battle.

_ “I will be there momentarily. Would you like me to stay on the line?”  _

That’s – Tim pauses to consider it. He won’t be able to get himself to say more than a few words, but that’s not what Alfred is offering.

“I – yes. Please.” 

_ “Very well. Have you had anything to eat?”  _

“I ordered a smoothie. It should be here soon.” 

Alfred lets out a soft  _ hmm _ .  _ “I’ll bring something over with me, then. Not to worry, it won’t take me more than a moment to gather what I need.”  _

Tim almost chokes on the wave of gratitude that washes over him at Alfred’s words. He blinks back the tears for a moment, then decides he doesn’t care and lets them fall. 

He listens as Alfred describes which ingredients he’s gathering and why, focusing on the soothing rhythm and allowing his breathing to deepen slightly. 

Then Alfred is on his way, a small cooler tucked into the passenger’s seat as Alfred follows the long driveway from the Manor and then takes the turn to enter the city proper. He doesn’t stop talking once on the entire drive, and Tim doesn’t ask him to. 

Tim just breathes and holds onto the knowledge that Alfred is coming. 

When the doorbell rings, it startles Tim out of the semi-trance he’s slipped into, staring between the phone in his hand and the door. Alfred is still five minutes away. 

It takes him another moment to remember the smoothie he’d ordered, relief and disappointment twisting together as he realizes it’s not one of his siblings. They never use the doorbell, anyway. He’s not sure why he even considered it might be one of them. 

Alfred shows up a few minutes later, sets his cooler on the counter, and wraps Tim in an agonizingly gentle embrace. 

He doesn’t deserve gentleness. 

That doesn’t stop him from clinging to his grandfather like a child, from shaking apart as the tears fall and Alfred murmurs reassurances into his hair.

“I’m here, Master Timothy,” Alfred tells him, “And I will stay as long as you wish.” 

Tim finally manages to pull himself together enough to let go, wiping the tears away with the back of his hand, and tucks himself further into his hoodie. 

“Sorry,” he rasps. 

“Nonsense,” Alfred says sternly. “I am grateful you trusted me enough to ask me to come.” 

Tim knew he would feel that way. He  _ did _ . But it doesn’t stop his eyes from welling up again with the overwhelming relief, and he’s such an  _ idiot _ . 

“I wish I could stop crying.” 

Alfred hums his disagreement. “Something Master Bruce has never understood is that crying is  _ healthy _ . It releases chemicals in your mind and the emotions in your heart. Bottling up your emotions is only a stopgap; you must release them sometimes.” 

Alfred’s gaze burns into Tim until he nods, reluctantly. 

“Now, would you prefer conversation or quiet?” 

Tim shrugs. It doesn’t matter. 

Alfred nods and begins preparing chicken soup, speaking occasionally but mostly just allowing the silence to linger. 

Tim simply sits at his little table, curled up in a ball and staring out the window. 

Eventually, Alfred sets a bowl in front of him, tucks a spoon into his hand, and then sits down at the second chair. 

Tim considers asking why Alfred is willing to sit here, but never at the Manor, but decides not to. It doesn’t matter. 

They sit. 

At some point, Tim moves to the couch and turns on something mindless that he doesn’t actually bother to watch. He just wants the background noise. 

Alfred comes with him, grabbing a large, soft blanket from the chair in the corner and tucking it in around Tim, who manages a faint smile. 

“It will pass, my boy.” 

“I know.” 

He does. That’s part of why he hasn’t killed himself. He knows it’s temporary, even if the knowing doesn’t make it any easier. 

He should tell Alfred he can leave. 

He doesn’t. 

He can justify it – he already came all the way over, Alfred would worry – but it’s purely selfish. He doesn’t want to be alone again yet. 

They sit there for hours, not saying anything, just sitting in silence. 

Eventually, Tim pulls himself out of his stupor and gives himself a little shake. He’s indulged himself too long already and he has things he needs to do and Alfred undoubtedly does as well. 

He gives Alfred a wane smile. “Thanks for coming over.” 

“Thank you for asking me to,” Alfred says. “Can I trust you to call again when you need – or even want – someone by your side?” 

Tim’s lips thin and he opens his mouth to protest, to explain that he wouldn’t want to put Alfred out, but Alfred raises his eyebrows and gives him a Look. 

“I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.” 

Alfred scrutinizes him for a long moment before he lets out a soft hum. “And how would you feel, young sir, if one of your brothers or friends were to say as much to you?” 

Tim opens his mouth to protest, again – his friends are so much  _ better _ than he is, it isn’t even a valid comparison: they’re smart and funny and fun to be around, they wouldn’t fall apart at the drop of a pin and they don’t loathe themselves with every fiber of their beings – and pauses. 

His friends  _ are _ smart. They’re smart enough that if they didn’t want to hang out with him, they wouldn’t, and most of them are straightforward enough that they wouldn’t bother to make excuses about it, either. 

Which means they  _ want _ to spend time with him. Which means, presumably, that there’s something about him that they like enough to be friends with him. His mind starts up with an immediate  _ but they’re wrong _ and he has to cut that thought off, because doesn’t that argument invalidate his prior claim that they’re intelligent? 

So Tim takes another moment to consider, seriously, what he would feel if one of his friends thought they were worthless and weren’t even willing to ask for company when they needed it, because they thought they were a burden. 

He would be upset, because they thought so little of themselves. He thinks his friends are awesome; so should they. He would be sad because they can’t see what he can. He would be, admittedly, a little unimpressed because he doesn’t  _ have _ to hang out with them, he does it because he  _ wants _ to. 

And then Tim flips it around and tries to apply these thoughts to himself.

It doesn’t quite work (because he isn’t worth  _ shit _ and pretending won’t make it real) but he understands what Alfred is trying to say. 

Alfred is still watching him silently, waiting on a response. 

Tim sighs. 

“It’s not easy to ask for help.” He manages to say.

“No,” Alfred agrees.

“I’ll try.” It’s all he has to offer right now, but Alfred’s eyes crinkle slightly and the older man nods. 

Before he goes, Alfred gives Tim another hug that nearly has him bawling again because his emotions are on a pendulum at the moment and swing from one extreme to the next in the space of a blink. He does his best to push it away, though, because he’s wasted the entire day doing nothing and he has cases to finish and a business to run. 

The next day, Alfred sends him a picture of a kitten surrounded by bunnies and Tim doesn’t quite start crying. 

Alfred doesn’t text. He might know how to use his phone, but he doesn’t care for it. There’s no reason for Alfred to have sent this but to make sure Tim knows he cares. He may even have had to ask someone how. It is pure kindness. (He  _ does _ start crying after that, though). 

The day after that, Alfred sends a picture of a dog with a cat on his head. 

Then it’s a short video of a seal spinning in a circle to music. 

The next time he has a bad head day, Tim forces himself to move past the lethargy and the  _ not worth it _ to send Alfred a short message. 

_ Can you come over, again?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all drinking hot chocolate, yet? No? Go get some. By the way, this is quickly turning into an actual story, somehow? I didn't see *that* coming. Updates when I have them.

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, take care of yourselves.  
> On a side note, I’m going to be crossposting pretty much all my stuff on AO3 under the username Ellegy42! (FFN is Alchemyfreak42), though I’ll keep my account here active, too. If you want a significantly healthier take on depression where someone actually gets some fucking help, check out “Fuzzy Gray” by envysparkler.


End file.
